quinta-feira, 8 de abril de 2010


I don't expect you to understand me, though I might've someday. You'll never know how it feels anyway. As a matter of fact, it's almost good you don't, for I'd hate to be understandable through your mentality. You, who makes self-destructive feel good. You should've seen behind this shining silence I shouted, I thought you knew better - though, to this day, I'm not sure I know you at all... though you're predictable in hate.

Don't knock on a door that's trying to stay close. If my sign says 'keep away', don't just stand there. Come.

quinta-feira, 1 de abril de 2010

to me you are

Your face works its way through me in a manner I cannot describe by words or gesture.
Your unkissed lips (by me, that is – I do not know who else walked your grounds), so intensely desirable and protuberant. I can almost feel the texture. The way they just pop out of your face is pure magic. Your chin, right under it, crashes like a dreamy wave that just adds up to how perfectly imperfect you look.
(I’m travelling my way through you right now, can you feel my thought?)
Your skin, untouched by sun, includes so many cells I’d willingly kiss. Milky white, it gets pink in certain spots. Just as perfect as it gets.
Your expression, looking so troubled either because you want it or because of something you’ll never tell me.
Sometimes I think the divinity you preach has touched you from second one. How were you as a child? I can only wonder. You seem to get better in time, but I doubt you’d ever unplease me.
You may lack in personality what would be needed for us, but I also lack in sanity when it comes to you, and I always have. A lot has changed, fortunately, but you still touch me by silence.
This isn’t a closure, because I’ve chosen it not to be. You’ve once said the bridge was burned, but I always knew I’d find a way to stand on it again, you always help me rebuild when you destroy me, even though it’s a dynamite bridge we end up on.
The years got me in my place and I do believe I have a much larger mental landscape than once we met. Sometimes it still hurts, but most of the times I've learned how to live with it just as I should and just as we eventually do.
This isn’t poetry, it doesn’t follow a line and quite frankly I’m ashamed of making this public. It’s just that every time I see a new picture of you I feel the need to write down how much I appreciate the work of art you are.

And I haven’t even mentioned your eyes. But I don’t need to, do I?